Lucas
by Dr Spleenmeister
Summary: The inside of Lucas North's head is a dark and curious place; black and white is overrated, Lucas resides in the grey area. CH3: Sarah, Ch4: Harry, CH5: Elizabeta
1. Russia

**Lucas**

**Россия - Russia**

Consciousness struck, and it struck hard.

Bloodshot eyes snapped open to full alertness, but it took him a moment to register that he was on the floor. Face down.

Why was he on the floor?

He turned his head to inspect his surroundings, instantly regretting the action as a nerve in his neck twanged and locked.

He blinked.

Squinting into the dirty floor tiles he tried to reassemble scrambled thoughts.

Failed.

Time passed and he remained on the ground. How long had he been here in this position? Minutes? Hours? He flexed his spine and it cracked audibly, lances of pain shooting up it and exploding behind his eyes in response.

Ouch.

More than a few minutes then.

Rallying strength he didn't have, he struggled to his knees; his laborious movements would have been painful to watch, had there been anyone there to pay attention to his lack of agility. Shuffling closer to the wall on his knees, he reached up with stiff arms to pull himself up onto his feet.

His face slid up the cracked, stained cell wall as he slowly, painfully became vertical.

Upright.

Good.

Upright was good.

His forehead pressed against the wall and his legs trembled, his nervous system rebelling against him as the evening's activities were reminded to him.

Oh yes, that's right.

Electrocution had been the order of the day.

They hadn't even asked him any questions this time.

Eyes that had once been clear and smiling, slid purposefully to the rickety chair that rested innocently in the corner of the cell. The eyes then flitted to the ceiling panel that concealed the motley collection of rags and sheets that would facilitate his escape.

Escape.

Seven years of work, of retaining the sanity that had threatened more than once to slip away; it was a long time to throw away on this kind of escape. But it was tempting.

No.

He'd lasted this long.

But...

There was, of course, another option. Arkady's option. He could go home.

Bile rose up his gullet and he fought back the urge to empty the meagre contents of his stomach onto the cell floor. To go home, he would have to betray his country, betray the very home he wished to return to.

Home... ay, there's the rub, Horatio old chum.

His home had forgotten him.

He squeezed his eyelids shut, blocking out the chair and the ceiling panel. He had lasted this long, he could last longer.

Right?

Kachimov's face, fixed in a mocking rictus grin, swam behind his closed eyelids. They snapped back open again and he gasped for breath, suddenly, inexplicably winded and frantic to get out of the room.

He staggered to the door on rubbery legs and hammered at it, desperate to attract the attention of his guard; even a beating or more electrocution was preferable to being left alone with his thoughts.

No-one came.

He whirled, his bare back pressed against the rusty steel door and his eyes skipped everywhere in the room.

Kachimov in the corner,

Kachimov on the bed,

Kachimov on the toilet,

Kachimov in my head!

Murmuring the ridiculous, spontaneous rhyme to himself, he felt his nails digging into the door at his back, felt flakes of metal paint come free and wedge themselves painfully in his nail beds, felt his knees begin to knock as the formerly solid weight of his sanity turned to thready wisps and began to drift out of his ears.

Then suddenly, a cold calm asserted itself and he released his death grip on the door. Stepping into the middle of the room, he smiled thinly in thanks as Imaginary Kachimov slid the chair over to him.

Climbing up onto it's unsteady platform, he reached up and uncovered his salvation.

The noose slid from its hiding place with a quiet hiss and hung with the patience of a snake, awaiting its purpose, directly over the chair.

Imaginary Kachimov folded his arms and shook his head sadly.

Head bowed as he disappointed his master, he stepped down from the chair, retreated to a corner and huddled down with the rat droppings, rocking silently and staring, unblinking, at the length of grubby fabric.

Lucas North,

Lucas North,

My name is Lucas North.

* * *

**AN: **_This piece will be a series of one-shots as I attempt to dig as far into Lucas' head as I can. The rating will inevitably go up as there's a lot of darkness in that lofty cranium that I fully intend to explore. _

_As this is an exploratory piece I am very open to critical review on the nature of the character I portray; I can live with it if you don't like my writing style but if you don't like my Lucas - or rather, you don't believe in him - then I'm doing something wrong. I won't know this, however, unless you tell me!_

_For the smut lovers out there, there will be a piece within this for you; you'll have to sit tight though, as any sexual anxieties will not be looked at just yet. I need to get to know him much better before we go there ^_^ Expect Elizabeta to make an appearance a little further down the line._

_On this subject, for those of you who are more critically minded, there's a very murky mention in season 7 that he may have been subject to sexual manipulation while in prison. I'm unsure whether to explore this or not, but if I get a convincing argument from one of you lovely reviewers that talks me into it, then I will. It has to be convincing though (and I can be hard to convince), so just putting "Pleeease write slash!" in your review will fail to sway me!_

_Thank you for choosing to join me on this journey._

_Doc_


	2. Dakar

A/N: Thanks to BeanieSgirl, DarknessDeadly, Vio and bunnyreader, for your feedback on chapter one; this series of one-shots is very much dependent on your support and belief in it.

* * *

**Lucas**

**Dakar**

Croupier... Courier... Killer.

How had it come to this?

How had he sunk so low?

There was desperation, and then there was John Bateman; a whole page of the dictionary of John's life could be devoted to this recently discovered, highly tainted facet of his own human nature.

He had been respectable once, a good person; he worked hard, was good to his parents, volunteered at the old folks' home and left college with a slew of qualifications. He could have been anybody, done anything, made the right choices.

But, like the good little capitalist he was, he succumbed to greed.

He made the wrong choice.

The situation that his impulsive tendencies and 'fluid morality' had gotten him into had seemed hopeless. He was stranded and alone in a foreign country with no passport, no money, no means of salvation. Lucas had thrown him a lifeline, Vaughn had thrown him another, and now Lucas' blood was on his hands.

Along with the blood of seventeen British and African people.

He covered his eyes with his hands, dug the heels in until colour exploded behind his eyelids, kept pushing until the pressure reached an unbearable level, then freed them.

If only the pressure around Lucas' crushed windpipe could have been released so easily. If only he could take it back.

His adams apple bobbed, swallowing the sob that could never escape. If it got out he would break; if it got out he would be as lost as Lucas.

The worst part of it all, the bitterest pill to swallow, was not that he had indirectly killed masses of innocents, nor was it the fact that he had killed Lucas with his own hands in cold blood; it was the simple realisation that he found it easy.

Killing was easy.

The adams apple bobbed again.

The good man he had once been wailed in a different kind of desperation, begging him to make amends, begging him to get it right this time.

The answering silence was painful, but he deserved the pain, the isolation.

He dressed himself mechanically, not noticing what he was using to cover up the willful monster he had become, knowing that he would get what he wanted regardless of what he wore; knowing it, because he always did.

It was the eyes.

At once disarmingly open and innocent, yet masking something dark, something extreme. He controlled it, the darkness, and yet allowed it to remain. He could exorcise it if he wished to, but that would be too easy and his conscience would finally catch up with him if he did. So he continued to control it, exercising varying degrees of it until it reached a point where the control became a game. The edge of control was tempting. The edge was very tempting. The edge was free. His eyes would hood, his brows draw low, his pupils dilate and then... there was the edge.

Realising that he'd stepped too close to the edge - during his introspection and without even realising it - he took a slow, deep breath.

He couldn't afford the edge. Not today.

He blinked. He'd arrived.

Looking up at his destination, he allowed himself a small curl of the lips and fingered the folded, faded photograph hidden safely in his suit pocket.

Thames House.

The door swung open for him, inviting him in, welcoming him to his new home.

John Bateman waited sadly on the doorstep, he'd still be there when the new Lucas North emerged.

Lucas North,

Lucas North,

My name is Lucas North.


	3. Sarah

**Lucas**

**Sarah Caulfield**

The first time after coming back had been an unwelcome challenge.

He enjoyed the challenge of the female as much as the next alpha male, but not like this.

Not when it was completely out of his control.

She was fast, too fast, she caught him unawares and inadvertently sent him and his libido skittering for the corner.

She stared at him, confused.

She didn't know about his time in the Russian prison; knew nothing of the 'hospitality' he had received there.

She watched him. Assessed him, as she had been trained to do; trained well.

Then she reached for him, softer this time, more gently. Coaxing him slowly out from behind his Iron Curtain and back into her bed, back into her arms.

He came hesitantly, but willingly.

After all, she was beautiful, charming, enigmatic... Blonde.

Surprising how important that single factor was.

She was blonde.

She wasn't his dark, sweet, innocent Maya.

She wasn't his dark, beloved, forever Elizabeta.

She was blonde.

She was light.

The rounded tones of her Boston accent purred into his ears and he relaxed, safe in the knowledge that she was so different to the women who had been the inadvertent source of so much pain in the past. He relaxed, safe in the knowledge that he had protected himself this time. He relaxed, safe in the knowledge that as he did not love her, she could not hurt him.

She moved over him and he lay back.

* * *

**A/N** My apologies for the very brief nature of this chapter, the next one will most likely be 'Harry' and will therefore have a hell of a lot more meat. I might also move away from the train-of-thought style I've been using so far with this.

Let me know if this is still working for you, otherwise I'll just ramble myself around in circles!

-Doc


	4. Harry

**Lucas**

**Harry**

Harry Pearce was not known for being a man of action.

Correction: Harry Pearce was not known for being a man of _excessive_ action. He did what was necessary to get the job done, he did what was asked of him and most of the time he did no more, because most of the time it was not necessary to do so.

Most of the time.

The reason that Harry Pearce did not usually go further than was necessary was not because he was a coward, nor was it because he was lazy; it was because he was clever. Harry Pearce was - in his own words - a cold, calculating bastard; he forged relationships with people he shouldn't, smiled blandly at the people he should and ruthlessly stepped on anyone who got in his way. And he did it all with an enviable, carefully crafted, air of innocence. More than one person had made the mistake of thinking that Harry didn't know what he did and more than one person would do so again.

Lucas North was not one of those people.

Brown eyes met blue over the nondescript office desk. This was the room where the fates of heroes were decided. This was the room where Five decided whether the endless stream of people passing through the door were offered option one or option two. Most people were given option one and sent on their merry way.

Lucas North was not one of those people.

The brown eyes narrowed in their inspection and glanced down at the paperwork laid out for their perusal. The face and the facts did not quite fit; there was something off about this one. In anyone else this slight discord would ring alarm bells, but Harry Pearce had learned from experience that sometimes the right person for the job was not the right person at all. Sometimes the wrong person was the right person. Sometimes the right thing to do was to go with one's gut. He looked back up at his guest and the other man's lips twitched ever so slightly.

"Говорите ли вы Россию?"

Lucas smiled. "HeT"

Harry didn't return the smile, choosing instead to watch the taller man closely.

"Your accent is heavy."

"Haven't used it in a while."

Harry raised one eyebrow, feigning a reaction. This one would need work and he would need to be manipulated very, _very_ carefully; turning Arkady Kachimov with an unwitting agent was not going to be an easy task and he had to be sure that North would have no idea what he was actually doing when the moment came. He had to trust that the other man would remain true to his country and to his master, even while said master was pulling the strings from behind his carefully affable facade.

Harry stood and held out his hand. "Welcome to MI5, Lucas."

Lucas rose, loomed over his new boss and accepted the handshake, attempting to ignore the disconcerting roil in his stomach as he did so.


	5. Vieta

**A/N: **The following parables are taken from the Hebrew Book of Proverbs, upon which the mentioned painting is supposed to have been based.

* * *

**Lucas**

**Elizabeta Starkova**

It was supposed to be a cover.

Go to the museum under the pretense of academia, meet the asset, get the intel, return to base. He gets as far as step three, then pauses, finding himself thoroughly struck by the exhibition.

_'_**William Blake: From Innocence to Experience'**

He had always admired men with a mastery of the arts: poets, writers, painters and the like. None, however, had reached out and grabbed him like this one. There was a huge reproduction of '_The Ancient of Days_', displayed high on the wall directly in front of where he now stood. The compass held out by The Ancient was almost fully extended, so as to indicate two points very far away from one another. Lucas fingered the acquired film case in his pocket and dwelled for a moment on the parallel that he saw with his own life in the painting: two halves pulled in opposing directions by one man - himself.

A woman spoke softly behind him,

"'_I love them that love me: and they that in the morning early watch for me, shall find me_.'"

He took a slow breath, searched his memory and replied without turning around or looking away from the painting,

"'_She entangled him with many words, and drew him away with the flattery of her lips_.'"

She responded, her voice closer to him that it had been before,

"'_My mouth shall mediate truth, and my lips shall hate wickedness_.'"

His eyes had closed and he murmured,

"'_She hath cast down many wounded, and the strongest have been slain by her_.'"

He felt the light pressure of her hand on his shoulder and her breath on his throat as she came around to stand close before him. He opened his eyes and felt them dilate; she was beautiful.

She spoke and he thought that maybe she had misinterpreted his involuntary response, "Don't be afraid of me."

He swallowed, her accent was thick and decadent to his ears. His own voice came out as a whisper, "I am not afraid of you."

She smiled gently, her eyes assessing him, seeing everything and nothing at the same time. She slid her hand down from his shoulder, down his arm, over his wrist, until her fingers laced through his.

"'_He that shall sin against me shall hurt his own soul.'_"

"'_A fool is beaten with lips_.'"

Her smile turned into a smirk. "Are you a fool?"

He drew her closer and murmured, "Sometimes."

His lips brushed hers lightly, in a feather-soft caress, lasting only a moment. She drew back, withdrawing her hand and leaving his feeling sad and empty. Reaching into her bag she pulled out a dog-eared copy of Blake's illustrations for Dante's 'Divine Comedy', wrote her phone number on the index page in the painfully neat handwriting characteristic of the children of the Soviet republic, and gave the book to him.

She smiled, gently again. "Call me when you understand." Then she left.

He watched her go, looked down at the book, then back up at the painting.

* * *

**A/N:** And now the explanation: the painting 'The Ancient of Days' is the tattoo that appears on Lucas' chest.


End file.
